Boy
by SeaTurtleWaves
Summary: How do you pick up the pieces when you've lost the only thing that mattered? Can you? A beautiful portrait of a father's pain. A deathfic.


This fic is based of the song 'Boy' by Beecake. I suggest listening to it at some point. .com/watch?v=N-UvAWs7cJU

Any mistakes are mine. This is a heartfelt snapshot into a life-changing moment in someone's life. Thank you for viewing it with me. Thank you for joining me in this exploration.

And Happy Holidays to all my readers. I will get to work on my other stories, now!

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Henry stood, feeling rain slide down his bald head. His new dark suit was getting heavy from the moisture. The weight mirrored the heavy weight on his heart. He was unable to stand up straight anymore. His grief made his knees bend, shoulders slump and his head hang low. He stood and stared, not hearing anything around him. He only heard ghostly echoes of laughs and sighs, yelling, and mischievous lies. The sound of people talking was muffled, the mourners invisible. His vision, hearing, thoughts all focused on someone who was somewhere else but most certainly not here.

TOO FEW LETTERS THAT WERE SENT, TOO FEW PHOTOGRAPHS FOR ME TO SEE.  
JUST TO KNOW YOU HELD THE PEN.  
SELFISH PLEASURES IN MY MAKE BELIEVE.

He looked at his hand, he was clutching a something someone had handed him. It was a postcard. On the front was a pineapple. It was the obituary. Someone thought making it like a postcard was ironic and touching. Henry felt sick as he thought of all the postcards he had received in lieu of seeing his face or hearing his voice. The time when he had lived in constant nagging worry of never knowing where he was, if he was alright. Just the occasional postcard with a vineyard on it, or a stadium, a note scribbled on the back. A declaration of independence. And Henry was left feeling like he was chasing a dream; playing chase with a little boy, but instead of being able to catch up with him and tickle him, hewas left with his hands empty, closing around stale air. Now, in this absence there would be no postcards to wait for with bated breath. No chasing with the persistent hope of catching the always elusive child. No more hope of any kind.

He rubbed his fingers on the glossy cardboard and glanced towards the large framed picture. As if, just in case we had already forgotten what he looked like, there was an image to remind everyone. The picture was ridiculous of course, but it was completely him. No studio portrait here. No, it was a snapshot of a happy grin and sparkling hazel eyes. That grin, those eyes, they would never be captured again. His gaze skipped over the collection of pictures others had contributed. A collage, a medley of smiles and moments. Every tiny moment that made up a life. What was that he had told him one time? Life is not made up of a single moment, it's made up of a gazillion moments." That's what those photos were like. All the little moments, a celebration the minister called it. A celebration of a life. Yeah, well Henry wasn't celebrating because this was a death and there was nothing to feel good about.

BUT THE NIGHTS ARE WAY TOO LONG AND I'M NOT STRONG LIKE YOU

I CAN'T BREATHE WITHOUT YOU, SON

His breath shuddered as he sat there, unaware he had been steered into the front row, out of the rain, a tent above their heads. A part of him was shocked that he was letting all these people see his emotions, see his weakness. He had been crumbling since the news. He hadn't been able to sleep. He was waiting for that moment when his son pranced back in the door, a big smirk, proud at having pulled an epic prank over on his old man. He gasped as he saw the dark wood in front of his eyes. He reached a hand out for it, instead an icy cold hand grabbed his. His ex-wife, holding onto him for support. Henry realized he no longer had anyone to hold onto for the support he needed. The support he craved from knowing his son was there.

MY BEAUTIFUL BOY

MY BEAUTIFUL BOY

MY BEAUTIFUL, BEAUTIFUL BOY

Henry sat frozen, cold and hurt, no longer angry, no longer trying to find answers. Earlier today he had every emotion swept away by the young, waxen face. The face that usually shone with happiness or glowered with anger. It held every emotion and Henry was the one who could identify each expression. But, now there was no expression. A stillness as he lay in his new wooden bed. His bed forever and Henry knew it wasn't as comfortable as he would have liked, his son loved pillows and there weren't an excess of them in there with him.

And then he was horrified to realize his boy was shut inside forever. He stood up, he wanted to rip open the top, screaming, "He doesn't like the dark, he needs some light! Open it, open it! Please, let my little boy out!"

But nothing came out of his mouth and his knees were frozen in place. He wasn't even aware that he was reaching forward until he felt two hands pulling him back, one dark hand and one light, small and feminine. They were trying to soothe him. He assumed they were telling him something that they thought would make him feel better, would take the place of his son being alive. He just wanted his boy.

THIS HOUSE STILL HOLDS YOUR SMELL AND YOUR VOICE STILL ECHOES THROUGH THESE WALLS

Henry sat in his chair, back in his house. A reception was going on in the kitchen, dining room, back porch, backyard. Black clothed people speaking in low murmurs, drawing comfort from each other. He saw Lassiter in his dress uniform and was strangely touched. He understood what that meant and swallowed back the lump in his throat. A brother in arms, a fellow officer, a partner of sorts was being mourned. He watched him give Chief Vick an awkward hug. He enviously watched Juliet cling to Gus and he to her as they cried together. Henry despised them for being able to draw comfort from each other. He was left by himself clutching a photograph.

He had no idea where he had gotten it from but it was taken in 1980, a toddler grinning up at the camera, seated on the lap of his father. Happy, content, safe in those strong arms, secure in the knowledge that he wouldn't come to any harm with those arms around him. The tousled brown hair, bright hazel eyes, thin arms squeezed around his father's neck. Henry's gaze traveled to the mantle and the photo there of the same hair and eyes of a now 30 year old, arm around his father's neck still. Only this time he wasn't looking for comfort and protection. Didn't think he needed it. He was wrong.

His chin wobbled as a small burst of laughter was heard from the large group of people in his house. He ignored the many glances thrown in his direction. Pity, curiosity, they all crowded the faces of the people who looked at him. He didn't care. He stood and walked upstairs. He slowly walked down the hall. He looked at the photos that lined the walls. They had all come down at one point. After the divorce, after the motorcycle peeled away. But after trying to ignore them, he found himself putting most of them back up. He liked to see his son age as he traveled the hall. He heard a laugh and turned sharply towards the end where a battered door was firmly shut. He knew that laugh, he craved that laugh. He followed the phantom sound. He touched the door laying his palm against it. The whispers of a little boy, the annoyed sighs of a teenager, the defiant, mischievous voice of his adult son, he could HEAR them just beyond this door.

He had been afraid of seeing this room before now. He didn't want to look at the room he had kept in pristine condition just waiting all those years for the hopeful return of his son. And he had, he had returned and even begun to sleep over, he'd pop back into his childhood room to grab an old t-shirt from his drawers, or some forgotten toy.

He turned the doorknob and swung the door open. The smell drove him to his knees. The faint scent of pineapple, grass and sweat. That special scent that was his little boy. The same smell that had clung to his skin since childhood. Henry still smelled it when he swept past him while pacing, working a case or coming over for dinner. He knelt in the doorway, tears running down his face. He barely managed to stand, and hobbled over like a man twice his age to the bed. He ran his hand from the end to the top and caressed the pillow where his child's face had lain. He pulled it off and slowly backed out of the room. It was too much. He shut the door with a snap.

He followed his previous path back down the hallway in reverse order, seeing his son age backwards through the photographs. He entered his own bedroom and kicked off his shoes and pulled off his jacket and lay on the bed. He held the pillow to his chest in the same way his boy had and buried his face in the scent of his dead child.

I WASN'T WITH YOU WHEN YOU FELL

I WAS WITH YOU THROUGH SO MANY FALLS

He wanted to turn back time, turn back the clock. Go back to the moment that would fix everything. He couldn't, nobody could. Even if they all wanted to. All of them felt guilt, felt some blame belonged to them. Was it luck? Was it irony? Was it a coincidence, an accident, a mistake? Whatever it may be it was a tragedy, a heartbreak. It was wrong. It was so wrong that someone who loved life so much, wanted to live it to the fullest, and infected those around him with joy, should be the taken down so quickly, so quietly. A sigh, a struggle, a death. A body, broken, left for those to find him. To realize they were too late, a moment, a second, a pause. What could have saved him? Why wasn't he able to save him? He should have known, should have been there, should have been beside his son. The thought tore at him. Why couldn't he have helped him?

So many other times Henry was there, someone was there. He was able to catch him as he slipped off the kitchen counter and held him safe in his arms. He was there to clean scraped knees, ice bruises and bandage cuts. His kid always a daredevil, always into something. He remembered snatching his wild son off of his bike before pulling a stupid stunt. His heard had been pounding as his arms had wrapped around the thin chest before angrily setting him whole and unhurt back on his feet. Now though, his arms were empty. There was no way to soothe this hurt. No kissing it better. No amount of hugs, ice, or cartoon band-aids could fix this. He was dead, he would never be in his arms again.

AND THE NIGHTS ARE WAY TOO LONG AND I'M NOT STRONG LIKE YOU

Henry lay there on his bed until everyone had left. Madeleine had come in and lain with him for a long while, clinging to him, sharing in the sorrow of having lost their only child. He had felt some comfort knowing she was the only one who could feel that gaping loss of their little boy, the eternal child, the pride of their lives, the best thing they ever did. He felt her hitching sobs against his back, felt the tight arms encircling him, the growing damp spot on his shirt. Her hand had laced through one of his to caress the pillow. Obviously, the bright pillowcase a give away that it was her son's.

For a time they shared their pain, silently grieving. Henry was unable to explain how his life felt useless and empty now. That he felt like a shattered man with nothing left to live for, but he was afraid to break the silence. He was afraid saying anything would make it more heart-shatteringly real. And he wasn't sure he'd survive it. The strong man, the upstanding cop, the strict father, the confident friend, the unmovable mountain of a man was broken. He would never regain that person. He was like that because he had had his son to show how to be a man, how to be a good person, to teach, to love. He had no idea who he was now that his child had been torn away from him. He had thirty years with him and it wasn't near enough. He wanted more dammit! His son deserved to live. He bitterly wept wishing it had been him instead. Anyone instead.

I CAN'T BREATHE WITHOUT YOU, SON

Days, hours, minutes, seconds, they all could have passed with Henry no more aware of whether it was a painful second without his son being alive or whether it was an agonizing day. People were trying to help him; they visited. Gus came by and brought cupcakes. They sat and stared at them, tears in their eyes, for the longest time before Gus reached out and slowly unwrapped one first for Henry and then for himself. They ate them in silence.

Karen came by and sat on the back porch with him watching the sunset over the ocean. It was beautiful to see and the golden sun brushed the green palm tree top and resembled a pineapple. At least he didn't cry, but it was painful regardless. Henry knew it wasn't Karen's fault that he was involved in fighting crime in his unorthodox ways, but he felt a bitterness envelope him when he saw her. Felt an anger at the job in general, her in general. He sat until the last rays shone sparkling over the water before he stood and nodded goodbye to her.

He wandered the house aimlessly, feeling no inclination to leave it. He tidied up the kitchen. Washed the Tupperware and casserole dishes people had brought over. He felt cold realizing other people were moving on. The shock dissolving and replaced by apathy in those who didn't know his son. Others, like himself would never recover. But they were few and far between. Not many truly loved him enough for their lives to be shifted. But he supposed that it was inevitable that people began to continue their lives regardless of the loss of their friend, their psychic, their comrade, their co-worker. But, even though Henry was still alive, he was no longer living. He found himself aimless, caught up in memories. He couldn't talk about him.

He still found it too difficult to discuss it. He was invited to dinners, or had potlucks brought to him. A small community of people who loved his son. Karen, Juliet, Gus, sometimes Lassiter would come by. Sometimes it was just Juliet and Gus as they sat with a pineapple on the table and quietly discussed their days of paperwork, sales routes and fishing. Gus had a haze over him, like a fogged window. It was some small comfort that Henry knew that Gus was a companion of the ever-lasting pain they would always feel having lost the person they most cared for.

Henry found that his life without his unpredictable son was now stilted. He was unlike the person he had been even previous to his son's birth. He was empty, living in an empty house. He had no job, he had given that up years ago. He had no wife, having lost that years ago. And now he had no son, having been stolen from him so recently. He didn't know what to do with himself. He just randomly cleaned or watched tv. Sometimes he took long, long walks on the beach. But made sure to always go south after he found himself in front of Psych once.

He had some friends sure, and the people that had loved Shawn, but he felt like his life was completely useless. He just didn't know what to do. He spent his days fixated on the death of his beloved son, the child he had raised and the one he had buried in the ground. The death destroyed more than just one person. It took the life of the father, the mother, the best friend, and the secret love. The end of his son's young life was also the end of his own. Henry sat on the back porch and watched the sunset. He felt nothing but sorrow and pain. He wanted his Shawny back.

MY BEAUTIFUL BOY

Shawn, I miss you.

MY BEAUTIFUL BOY

Shawn, please I NEED you!

MY BEAUTIFUL BEAUTIFUL BOY

Shawn. I love you.

MY BEAUTIFUL BOY

MY BEAUTIFUL BOY

MY BEAUTIFUL BEAUTIFUL BOY


End file.
